A Channel Passage and Other Poems | Page 5

mute
world song
Trembles and quickens and lightens, unfelt, unbeholden,
unheard, From blossom on blossom that climbs and exults in the
strength of
the sun grown strong,
And answers the word of the wind of the spring
with the sun's own
word.
Hard on the skirt of the deep soft copses that spring refashions,
Triumphs and towers to the height of the crown of a wildwood tree One
royal hawthorn, sublime and serene as the joy that impassions Awe that
exults in thanksgiving for sight of the grace we see, The grace that is
given of a god that abides for a season,
mysterious
And merciful, fervent and fugitive, seen and unknown and
adored: His presence is felt in the light and the fragrance, elate and

imperious,
His laugh and his breath in the blossom are love's, the
beloved
soul's lord.
For surely the soul if it loves is beloved of the god as a
lover Whose love is not all unaccepted, a worship not utterly vain: So
full, so deep is the joy that revives for the soul to recover Yearly,
beholden of hope and of memory in sunshine and rain.
III
Wonder and love stand silent, stricken at heart and stilled. But yet is the
cup of delight and of worship unpledged and
unfilled.
A handsbreadth hence leaps up, laughs out as an angel
crowned, A strong full fountain of flowers overflowing above and
around. The boughs and the blossoms in triumph salute with adoring
mirth The womb that bare them, the glad green mother, the sunbright
earth.
Downward sweeping, as song subsides into silence, none May
hear what sound is the word's they speak to the brooding sun. None that
hearken may hear: man may but pass and adore, And humble his heart
in thanksgiving for joy that is now no more. And sudden, afront and
ahead of him, joy is alive and aflame On the shrine whose incense is
given of the godhead, again the
same.
Pale and pure as a maiden secluded in secret and cherished with
fear,
One sweet glad hawthorn smiles as it shrinks under shelter,
screened
By two strong brethren whose bounteous blossom outsoars
it, year
after year,
While earth still cleaves to the live spring's breast as a
babe

unweaned.
Never was amaranth fairer in fields where heroes of old
found rest, Never was asphodel sweeter: but here they endure not long,
Though ever the sight that salutes them again and adores them
awhile is blest,
And the heart is a hymn, and the sense is a soul, and
the soul is
a song.
Alone on a dyke's trenched edge, and afar from the
blossoming
wildwood's verge,
Laughs and lightens a sister, triumphal in love-lit
pride; Clothed round with the sun, and inviolate: her blossoms exult as
the springtide surge,
When the wind and the dawn enkindle the snows
of the shoreward
tide.
Hardly the worship of old that rejoiced as it knelt in the vision Shown
of the God new-born whose breath is the spirit of spring Hailed ever
with love more strong and defiant of death's derision A joy more
perfect than here we mourn for as May takes wing. Time gives it and
takes it again and restores it: the glory, the
wonder,
The triumph of lustrous blossom that makes of the steep
sweet
bank
One visible marvel of music inaudible, over and under, Attuned
as in heaven, pass hence and return for the sun to thank. The stars and
the sun give thanks for the glory bestowed and
beholden,
For the gladness they give and rejoice in, the night and the
dawn
and the day:
But nought they behold when the world is aflower and
the season is

golden
Makes answer as meet and as sweet as the flower that itself is
May.
THE PASSING OF THE HAWTHORN
The coming of the hawthorn brings on earth
Heaven: all the spring
speaks out in one sweet word, And heaven grows gladder, knowing that
earth has heard. Ere half the flowers are jubilant in birth,
The
splendour of the laughter of their mirth
Dazzles delight with wonder:
man and bird
Rejoice and worship, stilled at heart and stirred
With
rapture girt about with awe for girth.
The passing of the hawthorn takes away
Heaven: all the spring falls
dumb, and all the soul
Sinks down in man for sorrow. Night and day

Forego the joy that made them one and whole.
The change that
falls on every starry spray
Bids, flower by flower, the knell of
springtime toll.
TO A BABY KINSWOMAN
Love, whose light thrills heaven and earth,
Smiles and weeps upon
thy birth,
Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Watch thee but from
Paradise.
Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Sweetest light of eyes
that live,
Ours must needs, for hope withdrawn,
Hail with tears thy
soft spring dawn.
Light of hope whose star hath set,
Light of love
whose sun lives yet,
Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Breathes about
thee, burns above,
Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
Shed from eyes
we may not